Submission

As I do, my livid pink vibe has been sunk into my cunt, shaking me from from deep within. It isn't lost on me how much that's an analogy for this relationship... the one where I am ordered and obey.

I never thought I would answer to 'slave,' you see. The idea was absurd and disquieting. When we began, he was simply 'sir.' He would enjoy the control of being able to tell me to play with myself in this way or that, to apply wax and clips, to snap a shot for his enjoyment. The submission something to explore on top of a light masochism I'd discovered long since.

The exploration was nearly as arousing as the activities, as knowing how my obedience aroused him, as this steadily building hum throbbing between my legs right now. Dissecting what made it hot; how I could reconcile exchanging power with my actions and beliefs outside of that exchange; and what kept it from being abuse or him from being a monster, was a whole different type of arousal. Sapiosexual, he's phrased it at one time or another.

And so it built, one act on another in slow waves as time and opportunity ebbed and flowed. There were videos. My awkward obedience captured with poor lighting and unflattering camera angles. And then sliding down the other side of that wave into uncertainty and fear at revealing so much, at capturing it, sending it. Fears that reverberated deeply.

I'm pressing the firm, shaking end of the vibe against my G-spot now, pausing often in my typing as it makes me gasp, as the waves build up.

Eventually, he asked that I call him master, though I was still just 'sub' if any 'title' was used. That was hard. Sinking deeper. Sinking under the waves, unsure if it would lead me too far from the surface. And yet it thrilled, and felt correct, and bound me happily as I continued to serve. I was, and still am, glad that we're exploring together.

I've paused and resumed after pinching my nipples into peaks, panting as I ride the vibe and dig into memory, wanting release that I'm not allowed just yet. Remember that all of this, everything I write, is because I am commanded, because I am his to command. The thought brings me perilously close to finishing too soon. I should type faster.

There's Skype, which allows some semblance of a scene at the distances we cover. Watching him come through my tearing eyes as I attach endless pins to my skin and pull my tits until the pins slip suddenly, painfully free, wakes such desire in me and such warmth to be fulfilling my role so well. As I said, I've enjoyed pain before, so this is nothing new. And yet, doing it with eyes cast down and 'Master' on my lips carries the wave of desire higher and sinks me deeper into that sense of subservience.

So maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised or troubled when he said it was time to call me slave, because he wanted to, because he felt I was and should be a slave, because I was his slave.

I am shaking with the longing that paragraph awakens in me for him, with the sweetness of knowing that this narrative will please him, and with the rising waves of pleasure hiding below my laptop as I erratically type and thrust and moan. It's a good thing that it still takes me a long while to come through this sort of stimulation. Still constantly learning new things.

At some point, I stopped worrying that I *shouldn't* be a slave. Though I still haven't been able to tell others about that development. The cultural shames still run through things. I know I'm not perfect, not yet. I know there are places still higher and deeper that we will explore. I know I'm going to have to stop typing any moment now, as the pressure in my clit spills out and freezes everything for long, long moments of ecstasy.